"It's a relief, after St. Francis every day," said Catherine. "The soup of the working girl grows monotonous."
"Hundreds of places like this." Margaret beckoned to a waitress. "Our coffee, please, and cakes." The shepherdess hurried away. "Isn't she a scream," added Margaret, "with that sharp, gamin face, and those ear muffs, above that dress! Why don't you hunt up new places to eat?"
Catherine glanced about; sleek furs draped over backs of chairs, plump, smug shoulders, careful coiffures, elaborately done faces.
"The home of the idle rich," she said. "I can't afford it. I'm not a kept woman. Fifty cents is my limit, except when I go with you."
"You draw a decent salary." Margaret pulled the collar of her heavy raccoon coat up against a snow-laden draft from the opened door. "What do you spend it for? You haven't bought a single dud. Why, you don't slip off your coat because the lining is patched. Does Charles make you give him your salary envelope?"
Catherine was silent and the shepherdess set the coffee service in front of Margaret.
"Well?" Margaret poured. "I'm curious."
"Only a rich man can afford a self-supporting wife," said Catherine lightly. "I was figuring it up last night. I've got to make at least a hundred a week."
"What for?" insisted Margaret.
"Everything. There's not a bill that isn't larger, in spite of anything that I can do. Food, laundry, clothes. You have no idea how much I was worth! As a labor device, I mean."